Brothers Divided
by ilovedraco45
Summary: Aberforth Dumbledore's thoughts at Albus' funeral. ONESHOT.


Estranged

Summary: Aberforth Dumbledore's thoughts during Albus' funeral. Post-DH. ONESHOT.

"_[There were] some people whom Harry merely knew by sight, such as the barman of the Hog's Head and the witch who pushed the trolley on the Hogwarts Express [at Albus Dumbledore's funeral]."_ – JK Rowling, _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince._

Disclaimer: I am not, nor will I ever be, the owner of Harry Potter.

A/N: I just finished reading _Sometimes a Great Notion_, so part of this is written in a bit of a Ken Kesey style. Just FYI, _italics_ are Aberforth.

Aberforth Dumbledore had always been quiet and unassuming, and he liked it that way. As a child, he had always been overlooked by a mentally unstable sister and a shining star of a brother, and as an adult, he was "the barman of the Hog's Head", or, to loyal patrons, "Abe." Albus hadn't been a brother of his for years now, and that was fine with him. After his tumultuous childhood, he felt he deserved a little peace and quiet. So he served Firewhiskey and Butterbeers to rowdy warlocks and sallow, withdrawn hags, ate three square meals every day, and slept late every morning. He saw Albus when the headmaster came down to Hogsmeade for a drink, but that wasn't very often. This, he felt, was the best for everyone.

Of course he had heard what happened. The entire village had seen and heard the battle that had taken place in Hogwarts that fateful spring night, but he had mostly ignored the bangs and volleys of sparks that ricocheted off the castle and into the village, and kept the drinks pouring. The fact that his brother was dead was only relayed to him several hours after the battle had finished, when the first of the daytime drunks stumbled their way into the Hog's Head for some elf-made wine.

"Quite the racket goin' on up there, eh Abe?" a regular patron named Ebrius said, smiling and revealing a row of yellow teeth. "Still can't believe that Snape got Dumbledore. Everyone's talking about it – _Snape killed him_! Unbelievable, eh?"

The glass Aberforth had been holding fell from his hand and shattered on the floor. "Damn slippery glass," he muttered in response to Ebrius' raised eyebrow. Ducking down behind the bar, he picked up the pieces of the glass, his mind on overdrive. _Albus…killed by SNAPE? I never trusted that greasy little prick…_ "When's the funeral?" he asked, dumping the pieces of glass in the trash and hoping he sounded nonchalant.

"Tomorrow afternoon, bub," Ebrius replied. "Could I get another?" Aberforth nodded, seeing the door open and watching more villagers pour in, their voices competing for dominance in the tiny room, and kept the drinks pouring like it was any other day – _and that's what it is, Abe. Just another day_.

***

Now, Aberforth sat in the back row of folding chairs and listened to the little white-haired man make his stupid speech about his sainted brother, how he was a Visionary and Brilliant. All the Ministry bigwigs were there, every scholar Albus had ever worked with and quite a few that he didn't work with, and, of course, the students and alumni that packed the seats and spilled out onto the grass. _All these people,_ Aberforth thought, _and not one of them knew the real Albus Dumbledore. _Only three people had been exposed to the real Albus – one was dead, one was rotting away in a Nurmengard cell, and one was sitting in an uncomfortable, folding chair, contemplating his brother's life as a midget with gigantic hair glorified Albus more than Hitler, Stalin and Mao combined. That wasn't his brother. His brother was the boy whose shadow Aberforth had stood under all his life, the boy that had kept him awake long into the night because he wouldn't stop studying and blow out his candle. His brother was no saint, no genius. He was simply a smart kid who had made some huge mistakes and spent the rest of his life correcting his ways. All the saps sitting here would be _shocked_ to hear what his brother had gotten up to in his early days – _particularly that Elphias Doge_, Aberforth noticed. _There's a sucker if I ever saw one_.

"His work on alchemy with Nicholas Flamel pushed the boundaries of life and magic…made the Sorcerer's Stone…" the tufty-haired man droned. _Yeah, pushed the boundaries of life and magic for his own personal gain, because he wanted to be immortal to enslave all the Muggles for their own good…for their own good, bah…_"His stunning defeat of Gellert Grindelwald, second only to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named as the greatest Dark Wizard of our time…"_ Lies, all lies! Defeat of Gellert…Gellert defeated him! Gellert had him from the very beginning. The amount of time Al spent mooning over him when he was in Godric's Hollow and after he left…if it wasn't for me, Ariana would have wasted away into nothing while he was planning world domination with that little fruitcake. Who took care of Ariana through Mum's death and after Gellert left when Albus wouldn't even come downstairs? Me. Who was never blinded by the "glamour" of an academic lifestyle? Who worked night and day to take care of the entire family while barely managing to learn to read? Me. Albus didn't do shit for our family – he was too busy taking care of the rest of the world. Charity begins at home, my ass._

The sky was the perfect, twinkling blue color of the eyes and Albus and Aberforth shared. Aberforth noted this as he tilted his chair backwards, the rear legs sinking into the mud with a tiny _squelch_ that prompted a glare from some woman wearing a hat with a vulture on it. Ignoring the venom in her eyes, Aberforth leaned his head back and stared into the sky, thinking about the last Dumbledore funeral.

***

Ariana had died too young; there was no doubt about that. She had been the sweetest, most innocent girl Aberforth had ever had the privilege to know and she hadn't had nearly enough people at her funeral – at least, no one who knew her. They all thought she had died from dragon pox or some shit and they crowded the pews, kissing up to Albus and patting his shoulder just so they could touch him. Aberforth's blood boiled, remembering Albus' eulogy. "A dear girl...tragic death…cut short, no one deserves it…" _He never took the goddamn time to know her, and yet the mourners want to hear _him _speak?_ Aberforth thought furiously. _Who could blame me for punching him in the face?_ "_Liar_!" Abe had bellowed, lunging at the podium. "It's your fault she's dead, _your fault_!"

"Abe, _shut up_," Al had implored desperately before cringing – even _he'd_ known that he'd sounded like a jackass. All Aberforth could remember after that gem of a statement was his vision clouding red and the next thing he knew, he was being magically dragged from the gravesite and Albus was howling, clutching his nose. _Who would I punch in the face this time?_ Abe wondered to himself. _If I punched Voldemort, I'd be dead before I hit the floor. If I punched the Potter kid, I'd be overrun by Aurors and imprisoned. _Abe settled for glaring at the little white-haired man as hard as he could and snorting loudly and rudely, to the chagrin of the mourners sitting with him. Now the lady sitting in front of him had taken off her stupid vulture hat, and Aberforth could see the body wrapped in a purple blanket with gold stars on it. Abe could see the protuberance in the blanket where Albus' long nose stuck up, and he smiled in spite of himself.

The last time he and Albus had spoken had been on an unseasonably warm evening in the bar. Albus had ordered some oak-matured mead and a Firewhiskey tonic, and had insisted on paying like he always had. It was nearly four in the morning, and almost all of the customers had either stumbled home or passed out, leaving the two brothers and Ebrius, who kept ordering elf-made wine despite the fact that Aberforth had cut him off almost two hours ago. "Oh, Abe," Albus had said in a moment of sudden remembrance. He reached into the pocket of his robes and drew out a dingy mirror with a golden frame. "Do you want this?"

"A mirror?" the younger Dumbledore had replied dubiously, turning it over in his hands. "What do I need with a mirror?"

"It's a two-way mirror," his brother had explained. "Harry Potter's got the other. If you say his name into the mirror, he'll appear and respond."

"The hell do I need with a constant connection to Harry Potter, Al?" Aberforth had snorted derisively. "He's your protégé, not mine."

"Just take it," Albus replied, downing the last dregs of his mead. "It might come in handy someday."

Aberforth fixed his older brother with a stare. "You're not telling me something."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm not!" Albus exclaimed, throwing up his arms. "Hand to Merlin. Just take the mirror, okay? Just take it."

Aberforth scrutinized the mirror. "How much?"

"It's a gift."

"It's not a gift, Al. You pay for every damn drink you order here, even though you're my brother. If you can buy things from me, I can buy things from you. How much?"

Albus sighed. "A Galleon, I suppose?"

Abe nodded and handed the Galleon to Albus, who stuck it in his robes, though Aberforth could have sworn that his brother slipped it into the tip jar on his way out. He'd stuck the mirror by Ariana's portrait above the fireplace in his living room and had yet to figure out what good it did him, but he decided to keep it just in case.

Several shocked shrieks drew Aberforth out of his reminiscing. He saw Albus' body burst into flames and turn into a stone coffin and felt grief punch him in the gut. Even after seeing first his mother and then Ariana go through the same process, it hadn't gotten any easier, and all the times he had pictured himself pointing and laughing derisively at Albus' coffin seemed irrelevant as he watched his brother, his last living relative, go up in smoke. Loneliness panged in his stomach as he realized that he was the last of the Dumbledores, that the name would go extinct in the male line upon his death. Shaking back the lonely thoughts and swallowing the lump in his throat, Aberforth Dumbledore got up from his chair and headed down the hill back into Hogsmeade. The post-funeral crowd would be arriving at the pub soon, and they would be thirsty.


End file.
